


Broken Again

by CanadianSlytherin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:50:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianSlytherin/pseuds/CanadianSlytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson realizes after he buries Sherlock for the second (and final) time how alone he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Again

John Watson, a middle aged man now, sat next to Sherlock. Well, more like, in front of Sherlock. Staring at the casket which held his husband's body. Mrs. Hudson had died ages ago, so now the War Veteran sat alone. Molly and Harry tired to sit near him, but he shooed them away. He wanted to be alone. The pastor droned on, "Dearly beloved, today we have lost our friend. Sherlock Holmes." John's eyes blurred with tears. "He was a loving husband-" everyone's eyes shot to John, pity oozing out of their composure. John wanted to scream. Only 25 years ago, Sherlock faked his death. For three years, John was as lonely as could be. He and Mrs. Hudson tried to fill the void, but couldn't. They left all of his stuff where it was. John started talking to that  _damned_  skull of Sherlock's.  
  
Nothing helped.  
  
As the pastor droned on more and more, talking about how brilliant he was, John noted with anger, that was all he mentioned. He didn't add in how loving he was, how kind, or gentle, nothing of the sort. John was fully aware of the tears pouring down his face, but made no effort to stop them. As the man said they would now take Sherlock to the cemetery to bury him, John half expected his phone -along with everyone else's in the room- to vibrate, each reading the same message. " **WRONG! -SH** "  
  
No such message ever came. It finally hit John, he was alone. Forever, for good.  
  
Sure he had his family, but they couldn't hold him when he was upset, they couldn't (and wouldn't) test human eyeballs and run out of the kitchen, faces lit with a wild, child-like joy, screaming "I figured it out! I figured it out! John, John! Get in here!" John's heart heaved, and he could already  _feel_  it.  
  
He was.  
  
Broken.  
  
Again...  
  
John ran, slower than he normally would have given his age, and went back to the flat. Even after they adopted children, they didn't move out. They loved the flat too much.  
  
But now as John looked around, the memories haunted him, whispered to him. Mocked him. As John almost crawled to their, no, his room, he heaved sobs out, his body wracked with wave after wave with sobs

"Dammit... Dammit, Sherlock, w-why?" he hiccuped, tears streaming faster as he looked at their wedding photo.  
  
He dove on the bed, and screamed in misery. John thought he'd cry himself dry. He thought back to two days before, when he awoke, and Sherlock was pale. Paler than normal. And cold. Oh so cold. John screamed, and shook him, over and over, begging him to wake up, but he never moved. John knew the second he woke up, and didn't feel Sherlock's arm slung carelessly around John's chest, something was wrong. And he knew Sherlock was dead when he saw how pale he was, he had seen death before, watched men and women bleed out in his arms. But he refused to think Sherlock was dead. It was unthinkable. John curled in a ball, and sobbed even more. Somehow it was possible for him to cry harder than before. That was all John remembered, as he drifted off to sleep.  
  


The next day, John awoke, head pounding. John rolled over, eyes shut, smiling, "G'morning, Sherlock," No reply ever came. At first, he was confused, was Sherlock already making coffee? And then it hit him: He had died three days ago. And was buried yesterday.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyday, this was how John woke up, rolling over, eyes shut and greeting a man who was no longer there. Years later, when John was an elderly old man, great-grandfather to four children, this was how he died.   
  
"Sherlock, wake up, it's Hudson's birthday, we can't be late." And for the first time since John had to bury Sherlock -for the second time- did he hear his voice.  
  
" _Quite right, John_."


End file.
